“A reality show?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Sitcom?”
Dylan shakes her head.
“Newscast?”
“I see where you’re going with this.”
I should hope so.
Dylan sits sideways on the table. “Listen, William. Wills. No, let’s go with Will. That works best. Anyway, I get it. You’re worried that I can’t pull this off, or that I’ll somehow get in the way. But I won’t. I’ve been taking Ron Howard’s Master Class online. And guess what? Directing could not be easier!”
I turn to Kira, expecting her to come to the same conclusion I've already reached—that this woman is completely unsuitable as a director for our series, or any series for that matter. But instead of looking horrified, Kira's smiling at Dylan and nodding.What the…?
“Oh, I get it,” I say, chuckling. “You guys are pranking me.” I stand and start examining the walls.
“What are you doing?” Victor asks.
“I’m looking for the hidden cameras, but I don't see any.” I turn to Tosh. “You’re getting good at this. Where’d you put them?”
“There's no camera,” Tosh murmurs, shaking his head.
I stand, staring back between him and Mac, but neither of them are smiling.
Dylan springs out of her chair and walks over to me, looping her arm through mine and leading me back to the table like I'm a confused child. “Okay, let’s talk about the elephant in the room.”
Is she the elephant in the room or am I?
She pats the back of my chair. I sit and try to calm down while she returns to the head of the table. “This is hard. I get it. I mean we all only just found out about Alex—”
“Allan,” I say.
“Right … Allan. It’s been what? Less than a week? I’m sure you’re at least as shocked as I was, but let's see this for what it is—an opportunity. This is your chance to turn things around and make this show what it really should be—the most widely watched and heavily syndicated television series on the planet. Think bigger thanSurvivor. Bigger thanClash of Clans. Hotter thanThe Thorn Birds—oh, you're probably too young to know that one. Whatever, thinkLostmeetsSurvivormeetsBig BrothermeetsTemptation Island. Total show makeover—new name, new format.”
Dylan taps on her iPad causing Madonna’s “Justify My Love” to start up. On the screen behind her, a video starts with photos and video clips of me—mostly shirtless—interspersed with videos of bikini-clad young women.
I sit with my mouth hanging open as I watch the women slide down ropes, splash in the ocean, and stare seductively at the camera while their hair blows in the wind. Dylan dances along with her shoulders and mouths the words. The video ends with Madonna’s voice saying, “Are you scared?”
Yes, Madonna, I am really fucking scared.
Beaming around the room, Dylan says, “Yes? Yes, right? This is it. The secret sauce.”
I shake my head. “No, sorry, but I don’t do reality porn. I do adventures in nature. It’s about survival and pushing the limits of what a human can do—”
“Not anymore, Will. Now it’s about sex. And sex sells,” she says. “Consider this—we bring on ten to fifteen women who all want nothing more than to marry you. We make them do all kinds of terrifying and disgusting survival things to win the chance at a proposal.”
I glance at Dwight who is quietly sucking on a Tums, then say, “I’m not… there’s absolutely no possible way in hell I’m doing that.”
Dylan nods quickly. “It’s okay. I figured you might be resistant to this idea at first glance, but trust me, you’ll warm up to it when you see these numbers.”
She taps her iPad again, and a chart appears on the large screen. Standing, she walks over to the wall. “We showed a thousand women ages nineteen to thirty-four photos and video of you, and asked them to rate you on scales of how interesting and exciting they found you, hotness, and marriageability, etc.”
I hold up one hand. “This is ridiculous. I’m not interested—”
“Sixty-eight percent of them considered you equal to or hotter than Henry Cavill. Eighty-two percent considered you highly desirable for a one-night-stand, and twenty-six percent considered you marriage material.”
